Eric had actually stumbled across Café Radiohead entirely by accident. He had been looking for a suit boutique that Markus had directed him to – if anyone knew his suits, it was his agent – but he had gone down the wrong street, and he had been standing there at the corner of Monroe and 5th, thirsty and tired and grumbling mildly about Markus's disastrous directions. Eric had been in Riverside for only a week, and it was a big enough town that he still got lost sometimes.
Then the name of the café had caught his attention, and his curiosity was piqued enough that he had to step in for a while, even if it was just to pay homage to his favourite band.
His initial impression of the café had been rather disappointing. It was old and a little musty, the air barely affected by the ceiling fans spinning above lazily, caked with dust. However, there was an odd, warm sense of coziness about the place, which reminded Eric of the cafés he missed in Europe, and the old marble tables lent the café a touch of class. In the States, a lot of these coffee joints were usually spanking new and shiny and a little pretentious, but this place had character.
Best of all, there were barely any people in the café for a Friday, which endeared it to Eric already.
He had tentatively walked to the counter and ordered a cappuccino. The redheaded barista was hilarious – he seemed unable to stand up straight, reminding Eric of a beanstalk bent over by a strong wind. But his coffee was undeniably fantastic, and before Eric knew it, he had slurped down the entire cup. He came back over the weekend with his laptop in tow. He wrote five pages. He came back again. Twelve pages this time.
Then on Monday, something different happened.
Eric was already sitting down at his favourite table when he saw the cover of his book opposite him, his skin prickling with recognition even as he groaned inwardly. A fan, then. Eric had gone to great lengths over the years to avoid meeting fans, because it was weird and awkward having to deal with people who gushed and flailed a lot and thought they knew him simply because they had read his fiction.
Eric already had enough of the psychos on his official message board, particularly one fanboy with the moniker Hank-something who seemed to make Emma and Markus crack up with his lengthy gushing and meticulous theories over the themes of the books.
Thankfully, due to Eric's strict no-photo and no-publicity policy (which often had Markus ranting, begging, sobbing, threatening and then bribing him to try and change his mind) only a handful of people knew what E. R. Torrington looked like. This bought him a bit of anonymity, at least.
He eyed the woman reading the book; there was a wondrous look of rapt attention on her face, bright blue eyes devouring the text, and for the hundredth time Eric really wondered why people loved his books so much. While he knew he was competent and, occasionally, even good, he thought the reaction to his books was extremely out of proportion to his abilities.
Just for the hell of it, he had tried to get a rise out of the woman – Charlotte, he would later find out – who looked like an easy target, someone naïve who was susceptible to disillusion. But Charlotte had been perfectly polite – annoyed, but not mindlessly outraged – and she had not taken the bait, and Eric was more intrigued than ever.
After Charlotte had left, Eric had asked Sean as he was wiping the tables, "Is that lady coming in again?"
Sean had blinked at him. "Who?"
Eric had gestured vaguely at Charlotte's table. "You know, the one who looked like she was perpetually annoyed at me."
"Oh, you mean the Prof. Yeah, she comes in every Monday and Thursday."
Eric had checked his schedule, then smiled when he saw Thursday was free.